The Gift of God

Blessed with a joy that only she  Of all alive shall ever know,  She wears a proud humility  For what it was that willed it so -  That her degree should be so great  Among the favoured of the Lord  That she may scarcely bear the weight  Of her bewildering reward.  As one apart, immune, alone,  Or featured for the shining ones,  And like to none that she has known  Of other women's other sons -  The firm fruition of her need,  He shines anointed; and he blurs  Her vision, till it seems indeed  A sacrilege to call him hers.  She fears a little for so much  Of what is best, and hardly dares  To think of him as one to touch  With aches, indignities, and cares;  She sees him rather at the goal,  Still shining; and her dream foretells  The proper shining of a soul  Where nothing ordinary dwells.  Perchance a canvass of the town  Would find him far from flags and shouts,  And leave him only the renown  Of many smiles and many doubts;  Perchance the crude and common tongue  Would havoc strangely with his worth;  But she, with innocence unwrung,  Would read his name around the earth.  And others, knowing how this youth  Would shine, if love could make him great,  When caught and tortured for the truth  Would only writhe and hesitate;  While she, arranging for his days  What centuries could not fulfil,  Transmutes him with her faith and praise,  And has him shining where she will.  She crowns him with her gratefulness,  And says again that life is good;  And should the gift of God be less  In him than in her motherhood,  His fame, though vague, will not be small  As upward through her dream he fares,  Half clouded with a crimson fall  Of roses thrown on marble stairs.